James A. Ruffer MD 15 October 2014
This is my war story! It is the one to which I relate best. The lament of the story was always in my head. It is now in my bones. Oh, I could write of missiles exploding overhead in a distant land, of body counts on enemy corpses, of daring exploits in an enemy prison and of dodging mountains, trees, structures and other warplanes in air combat over Vietnam. Those stories of my service would be true, but this story is when I cry. This one is where I meet with my hidden, elusive self, where in my dream the little boy of long ago, with face aglow, rushes up to me and asks if I have become the man I hoped I would be. Military exploits did not bring me home in honor to the hills of long ago, but my appreciation and love for the men with whom I served did. I do not want to go back to where I came from, the time before these men and their lives, honor and purpose entered my life. It is only with deep reflection, and the letting down of my guard, that I have come home. It has been a sweet release, to a once stilted man.
I checked into the Fredericksburg Hospitality House, Fredericksburg, Virginia on the afternoon of April 24th, 2014. I was in Virginia for the dedication of a monument on the grounds of Marine Base Quantico. The monument was to the United States Marine Corps Basic School Class 6-67. “The Basis School,” known to Marines simply as “TBS,” is a twenty-six week leadership and combat training course for all Marine Corps officers and begins immediately after successful completion of the ten-week Officers Candidate School. Class 6-67, whom we had come to honor, had begun instruction in June 1967 and, later, because of the fight it faced, had suffered the highest death rate of any TBS Class of the Vietnam War.
At the Hospitality House front desk I was feeling my aching Marine bones, as I glanced at the dangling name tag on a nice looking young man rapidly approaching me. His confident, assertive footsteps and the name on the tag took me back to 1968, long before this young man was born. My best friend, a highly decorated Marine killed in heroic air action, bore the same first three names as were on this tag: Roland Charles Hamilton. The forth name on the tag, “Scott,” was the name of this handsome young man’s father, Ron Scott, also a dear friend. Friends, fraternity brothers and warriors Ron Scott, Roland Charles Hamilton and I had been a fabulous three-some, our love for each other monumental. Young Roland Charles Hamilton Scott, embracing me for the first time in his life–warmly, as if he knew me well–introduced himself as “Charlie.” Besides bearing a fallen Marine’s name in its entirety, he also bore his namesake’s winsome smile and personality.
Roland Hamilton’s widow, Maggie, had never recovered from her husband's death. My wife had consoled her for the year that I was gone. Miraculously, Maggie was here for the dedication. We had each named our newborn daughters Jennifer in ‘68/’69; Maggie's Jenifer was here with her husband and their children. Here also was a ninety year-old gold-star mother to dance with gnarled old Marines, twenty years her junior, at the dedicatory banquet; and here was a new friend I shall never forget, Richard M Vannatta (I’ll refer to him as Richard V). Richard V’s story, which you shall hear, gave peace to my mind regarding Leadership and Brotherhood–to have these qualities or not to have them was everything! Many were there, at war–you either got those qualities then or you didn’t get them at all. My war story is about Leadership and Brotherhood.
When the Marines landed north of Da Nang, in South Vietnam, on the 8th of March 1965, it was only a matter of time before my brother and I entered the fight. Flash back almost forty-seven years to October 12th, 1967: I was a Marine student jet-pilot at Meridian, Mississippi and my brother Jack was a Marine platoon leader during Operation Medina, the fight to sweep the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) from the Hai Lang National Forest of South Vietnam. Jack had proven his leadership skills in that fight and had survived, with most of his platoon. It had been a harrowing battle of attrition. Jack sang out the words to the Marine Corps Hymn as he led his men for the forth and final assault into the ranks of the numerically superior onslaught of encroaching enemy. His leadership had prevented the annihilation; and his life was only saved when Corporal William T. Perkins Jr. threw himself on an enemy grenade. Corporal Perkins received the Medal-of-Honor, posthumously, for this act of Brotherhood (Lions of Medina by Doyle Glass).
Now it was my turn! Did I have what it takes? With whom was I competing now?– competing had always been the game. Wasn’t there a better game? This was it!–and not a game at all! Did I have the qualities?
In September of 1969, almost two years after Jack’s heroic struggle, I was a Marine aviator flying combat missions in Vietnam in the A-4 Skyhawk. Fending only for myself in a single-seat fighter, I did not feel much like a leader. But it was fabulous flying, the best I would ever experience: conducting close-air-support, sometimes at treetop level, for the Marines on the ground; and interdiction missions bombing the NVA supply routes in and around South Vietnam. But my non-flying hours were mostly spent writing home to my family, watching movies on the officer’s club patio and hustling for inglorious night-precision-bombing missions. As an air operation’s officer and writer of the combat-flight schedule, sadly I had little contact with the Marines–the men in the ranks. But wasn’t it more my style to be the individual?–the stilted one!
One day Lance Corporal Collier was brought through my corridors in chains. This Marine had been away without leave (AWOL), on drugs, and in altercations with other Marines. As they hustled him by, he looked into my face. Disconcerted and a little disconnected, I managed to say to him, “Believe in yourself, Marine, and you’ll get through this!” After a period of time, and before his intended courts-martial, he was freed on his own recognizance–a great surprise to me! But he would remember me, and late one night he called me by landline to Officer’s Country–the area of pilots’ hootches and living spaces. I allowed him to visit me in Officer’s Country that black, rainy, monsoon night, and in the pouring rain I leaned against a barrel, dressed only in poncho and flight boots. He was already agitated and foulmouthed, while still yards from me, when he lit into a tirade against all his superiors, all officers, and the Marine Corps. I was flabbergasted at his hatred, anger and derision toward everything I believed in. His vocabulary was appalling! What could I do? I would have had to bellow and shout just to get his attention–and then what? Gradually he played himself out, and I began to talk to him, reason with him; and I listened to him. We came to an understanding, after we had retraced some of the violent, thoughtless things he had said. Certainly others had heard him and deliberated these issues with him, but on this night of heightened tension I had heard him out, given him sound advice, and shown him that I cared about him in his self-inflicted dilemma; and I had agreed with him on a plan. But unchangeable was the fact that he belonged to the United States Marine Corps and he was the anvil and the Corps was the hammer.
But something had worked for us that night, and I had realized that in caring I must care dispassionately, thoughtfully, and intelligently, admitting that just by talking to him I was incurring a responsibility to this man and to the Corps. Was this Leadership or Foolhardiness?
A few weeks later I was given the assignment as Officer-in-Charge of the Squadron Avionic Shop. I began visits to the men at their work, their mess hall and billeting areas. I kibitzed with them and their non-commissioned officers around their tents. I drank beer with them and learned about their lives in and out of the Corps. These were small thing; but I began to feel more like a leader. And I was deeply touched by their gratitude for my presence and for my interest in their lives. Their days were not easy, and my actions had been the first tenants of my attempt at Leadership.
As a Marine pilot I was on top of the world. Yes, I risked life in combat, but the world was always at my feet. I had self-respect, and no one went out of his way to tell me what to do. I flew because I loved to fly and I wrote home to my wife and three daughters at night because I loved this too. I already knew that my future was to be in medicine, as a physician. I knew a lot of things, and I knew that it was not always easy to be an enlisted Marine, especially a “snuffy” or low ranking Marine. I had known one snuffy very well, one of my operations clerks. We had gravitated towards each other. Lance Corporal Blakesley of Omaha, Nebraska was the snuffy I would never forget–but we had become separated after the war. And I regret I hadn’t taken the time to know him better….and….had never so much….as played cards with him.
But Marine officers did not fraternize with enlisted. Officers were to care for the enlisted, care deeply from an emotional distance, where salutes sufficed and handshakes were not necessary, where orders were verbal and direct.
One day, our VMA-223 Squadron Commander, Lt.Col. Jim Lazzo, called me to his office and asked me what to do about Lance Corporal Collier, the hellion. The Skipper, Lazzo, said he needed my help; he knew that I knew Collier, who must have mentioned my name to the Squadron First Sergeant. The choices were courts- martial with certain jail time or release from the Marine Corps. The Commander accepted my reasoned judgment in the matter: Collier would leave the Corps. By getting involved with Collier to the extent I had, I got myself into the place where I was asked to determine Collier’s fate. It didn’t seem right. The Marine Corps’ wheels should have been closer to the road. And I was slow to learn the ironies of Leadership but I learned. Maybe Brotherhood would follow Leadership.
Fast-forward to April of 2014 and the Fredericksburg Hospitality House. After much ado and many fine moments of dedicatory speeches, museums and reunion, I found myself dealing a card game late at night to a table full of drinking Marines and a few invited guests. To my left, old Norb Plassmeyer was seeking closure to his younger brother’s evil fate. Bernie Plassmeyer had been killed on a dangerous night-attack mission flying the A-4 Skyhawk. Norb wanted to hear from me about his brother’s aircraft, fellow pilots and the mission that took his life.
To my right, combat stressed Richard V. from Columbus, Ohio was mouthing off. By then, I already knew he had been bankrupt three times, married three times, had a kind heart and rode a Harley Davidson motorcycle in Rolling Thunder, Washington D.C. Inc. every May. And I knew that I liked him–a Marine brother. At this point, Richard V. screamed with up-swinging crescendo in his voice: “In Nam in ’68 my lieutenant got blown away. I told the Gunny, we don’t need no damned lieutenant to run this damned platoon.”
I continued to deal cards to the Marines, but I thought to myself, “Weren’t WE ALL lieutenants then?–why did he say HIS lieutenant got blown away?”
Richard V. continued: “I was wounded! Ended up in a navy hospital. Nobody in the ward could walk but me. All night I’m dragging things out of their lockers: cigarettes, books, and toiletries. One Marine is hanging from the ceiling, in a full-body cast: ‘Somebody please, for God’s sake, scratch my legs!–I can’t stand it any more! For God’s sake! Scratch my legs!’
“Hell,” cried Richard V. “the Marine didn’t have any legs to scratch!”
My ears began to ring to Richard V’s loud crescendos.
The game of Hearts went on. A middle-aged, fine-looking female named Ms. Tree was on Norb’s left. She played well! Richard V. couldn’t remember her name. “What the hell is your damned name?–Bush? Bramble?
Ms. Tree gladly reminded him of her unusual name. I ran the cards–got all the points! Hearts was my game–“Twenty-six points against everyone!”
Richard V. was shrill: “Finally we got a new lieutenant to replace our dead lieutenant. He came in wearing a damned bulletproof vest. Can you believe it? That dumb-ass lieutenant had a flak vest, and I’m not even wearing rotted-off underwear! Sheeesh!”
My ears rang again as I thought to myself, “But we were all lieutenants! Richard V., who were you if you weren’t a lieutenant, if you needed a lieutenant to replace your dead one? We WERE ALL lieutenants, right?”
Richard V. continued: “The damned lieutenant was even wearing a friggin flak girdle to protect his friggin family jewels! Can you believe that dumb lieutenant?–the idiot waddled in wearing his flak girdle!–and I’m not even wearing socks or underwear!”
Assuming that he had been a lieutenant of TBS Class 6-67, I responded: “So, Richard,” I asked, adroitly, with all due respect–and, after all, in spite of it all, I really liked this guy who was a little tipsy tonight but a real Marine and very likable with his good heart and all–“if you got a replacement lieutenant, then who were you in the platoon?”
Richard V. said, “Hell, I was just a friggin Lance Corporal!”
“So, Richard,” I blurted, liking him even more, “how long did the dumb lieutenant wear the friggin girdle? I was catching the spirit of his conversation!
Richard V. looked across the table to another Marine sitting there: “Hey, Keith, how long did you wear that friggin girdle?”
My heart stopped at the thought that Richard V’s lieutenant was sitting at the table and that they had not parted since Nam brought them together–officer and enlisted. My heart stopped long enough for me to hear Keith’s answering words and see his casual fingers come up, “Three days!” He had only worn the despised flak girdle three days.
Unlike Lance Corporal Blakesley and I, they were not parted by war or peace. Like many war veterans, they would not be parted by death! If this wasn’t Brotherhood, nothing was!
Yes, I’ve missed Lance Corporal Blakesley of Omaha, Nebraska, and I don’t even remember his first name–haven’t been able to find him. I was slow to learn Brotherhood but I learned!